Our short conversation over coffee this morning.
“What are you doing today?”
“Clam dip, books, sun. Maybe some beer.”
“I saw you bought a large stack from Barnes the other day.”
“Yes, but I don’t have the book I want.”
“Sippican’s?”
“Of course.”
My first day of real vacation, both kids safely ensconced with grandparents for the next several days, I will be doing nothing that resembles mothering, cleaning or cooking. There will be copious amounts of reading, snacks, sex anywhere but the bedroom and writing. A small idea of the grand word vacation, but it suits me just fine.
A couple of interesting things happen when you run a blog. The first is coming across simply amazing people who are truly kind, wicked smart, generous to a fault and unbelievably talented in a variety of fields. These distant voices never let you forget that the world is full of wonderful, great-hearted men and women.
The second is that nice people send you free things, like books, and ask you to review them on your site. A very flattering proposition, until you realize you can’t possibly recommend their self-published pages of mangled grammar, lack of punctuation or unending streams of misspelled words to anyone until a heavy-handed editor beats their beloved piece of work into some semblance of literary shape. Even then I might still be on the fence or, given enough bourbon, recommend it as a sturdy door jamb in a tight pinch.
Which makes you feel bad. You really want to like this person’s book. I usually let them know my honest, unqualified opinion, advise them to seek skilled editorial assistance on their next effort and sincerely thank them for giving me the opportunity to read their book.
Today I am going to recommend a book of short stories that wasn’t given to me. The author didn’t ask for a review and I probably ought to remind you that I haven’t even read the book yet.
It was written by a man who is quite possibly one of the finest storytellers I’ve ever come across, a truly skilled and gifted wordsmith who deftly brings a glory of words into sharp focus. His small stories tend to fold and gather, allowing the reader to lose himself in a sepia saturated journey of fine telling, every last one imbued with a sense of raw, pure grace. Simply put, Greg Sullivan’s writing is an exquisite thing of rare beauty.
I’ve been reading his site for six or seven years, own several pieces of his fine furniture plus one delightful Owl House that commands center stage in my otherwise very contemporary kitchen.
I do admit, he is my friend, but I wouldn’t recommend this book if I didn’t think it was worthy of your notice or that you wouldn’t enjoy spending a few hours of your time in his company.
Long winded intro, time to get to the goods.
The Devil’s In The Cows
Go pay Sippican’s Cottage a visit. It’s a lovely place where you can read an excerpt of the book, learn a little something about the author and make a great purchase for your library.
***Excuse the lousy formatting, wordpress is giving me conniption fits tonight.
I’m buying whatever the two of youse are selling.
“Lance. Hasten to The Presence!”
[It never stops. It just never stops.]
“Yes, My Queen.”
[Insatiable succubus.]
“What did you say?!”
“I said, ‘Plate of succotash?’”
“That’s not what you said.”
“No, it wasn’t, but I’m loaded and that’s the best I can do at present.”
“Hear this, miscreant. I am on vacation. There will be copious amounts of sex anywhere but the bedroom.”
“Does this imply lesser amounts of sex IN the bedroom as well, or are we restricted to nonbedroom venues?”
“What do you mean, ‘we’? I sad nothing about sex with you.”
“Oh. Ah. Well, pip pip.”
[And I meant it to sting.]
Lance, you’re a pure bred horn dog. ;-)
Jewel, Sippican’s work sells its own good self.
Me, I’ve got nothing on the table yet.
You sell something every time you write, dearest, and we buy, though we get it at a bargain. It’s worth more than what you are offering it for.
Bought Sippican’s book just now. Who can resist “37 sly vignettes?”
(The book is dirty, isn’t it? Cuz, if it isn’t I may have wasted 12 bucks.)
Thanks, Daphne.
The secret is to mangle grammar deliberately. You look dumb if you do it by accident.
Mangling with deliberation. Sounds like a title.
You are more than welcome, Sipp.